“I don’t think I’ll talk too much,” Chakiris said onstage. “I just want to say thank you very, very much.”

The orchestra played “Maria” again, and Chakiris walked backstage, toward Margaret. He was grinning from ear to ear as two women holding clipboards greeted him in the wings. They steered him toward the door, where Margaret approached him and held out her hands for the gold statuette. He automatically handed it to her, presuming she was with the Academy.

Margaret turned and ran back down the stairs, raised the Oscar high, and brought it down on Les Wolff’s head.

She heard a crack.

The studio executive fell forward, unconscious.

Margaret wondered what had cracked. She examined the statue—there was a red smear on the edge of the base, which she wiped off with her thumb. Otherwise it looked fine.

Charlie pushed Wolff off him.

Margaret turned around to see George Chakiris and two women holding clipboards, all three with their mouths open.

“Here,” Margaret said, handing the trophy back to a stunned Chakiris. “These things are heavier than they look!”

Within minutes the Santa Monica Police had cordoned off the stairwell. A perimeter had also been established backstage, police tape demarcating the area where Fontaine had landed. The police seemed focused on keeping everything as discreet as possible. They ensured that when Manny Fontaine and Les Wolff were carried out on stretchers, they went through a back door to ambulances parked in a restricted area.

While Charlie’s wounds were tended by a medic, Margaret guided a detective to the van where Joe Edmondson, Frankenheimer’s sound mixer, had set up shop and recorded her conversations with Fontaine and Wolff. Soon after, Charlie and Margaret found themselves seated in the back of a parked police cruiser.

Night had fallen on Los Angeles. From the back seat, Charlie tried to look in the rearview mirror, but there wasn’t enough light for him to see. With her hands on his cheeks, Margaret turned his face toward hers.

“Nothing permanent,” she said.

“I think he bruised my rib.” He patted his side. “If I hadn’t fallen down those stairs, I could’ve knocked him out.”

Margaret smiled. “I’m sure you would’ve, sweetie.”

They turned toward a tap on Margaret’s window: Detective Meehan. She tried to roll it down but realized there was no way to do so. Likewise, the door wouldn’t open from the inside.

Meehan smiled and opened the door. “One of the officers will be here in a minute to drive you back to the hotel, and we can talk there,” he said. “Too many ears around here.” He handed Margaret a plastic baggie of ice. “Give this to Charlie,” he said. He tried to shut the door but Margaret stopped him.

“My friend was kidnapped!” she exclaimed. “Her name is Sheryl Ann Gold. You should see if she’s at Wolff’s house.”

“Or Fontaine’s,” Charlie added.